


Anastasia

by artoriusrex (jesusonaunicycle)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Art as a Coping Mechanism, Bisexuality, Blood and Gore, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Coping, Government Experimentation, Human Experimentation, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Inhumans (Marvel), Kid Fic, Multi, New SHIELD (Marvel), Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Past Child Abuse, Past Relationship(s), Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers Feels, Teenage Drama, Wakanda, gratuitous explosions, unplanned parenthood
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-17
Updated: 2017-07-25
Packaged: 2018-12-03 05:16:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11525310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jesusonaunicycle/pseuds/artoriusrex
Summary: But Steve’s true attention was captured at the girl’s reaction to Bucky’s voice.Suddenly, she was upright, alert, her hands clenched into fists. He finally got a good look at her face; high cheekbones, square jaw. Gray eyes wide and full-lashed. Her hair hung around her ears in kinks, brown and dirty.  But her expression was full of wonder, happiness, love—and she was staring at Bucky.Or, more colorfully titled,Becoming the Proud Parent of a Government Experiment in Eight Parts.





	1. Foreword

**Author's Note:**

> Hi!! Okay, so, first things first: this story is kind of my baby, and while I know I am SUPER bad at chaptered works, I really hope you guys can stick this out with me! This is NOT your typical kid fic, so don't be lulled by its tag. Some backstory for this: I watched the Fox Animations movie _Anastasia_ , got pretty obsessed with Captain America: The Winter Soldier, watched Civil War when it came out, and kind of devolved from there. Complete with me screaming and crying. 
> 
> **Warnings: blood and gore in later chapters, frank discussion of child abuse/torture, government conspiracies and demolition, lots of explosions, discussion of drug use/past alcoholism, and Teenage Drama**

SHIELD interrogation rooms all looked the same, really. Slate gray walls, a one-way mirror on the far wall, stainless steel table and chairs. Uncomfortable, uninhabitable—cold and clinical. It’s the way SHIELD ran. It’s the way SHIELD will always run, Phil Coulson thought morbidly, staring through the one-way mirror at the current subject that was visiting Interrogation Room 4.

The girl couldn’t have been more than sixteen. Her hair was shaved, so her face remained entirely visible, but Phil noticed the brown fuzz that had started to grow. Her eyes were downcast, with long lashes, ash-gray, touching her face. Her jaw was square, her cheekbones high, her skin a pallor that spoke of very little exposure to sunlight. Her blood tests revealed she was deficient in vitamin D. Her blood tests also revealed a series of sedatives and neurotoxins that Phil couldn’t think about without his fists clenching in anger.

“Agent Coulson?” Director Hill asked from where she was standing behind him. Her posture was rigid, austere—nothing like the Maria that Phil used to grab drinks with, just a few years ago. They’d complain about Tony nursing overly-expensive mojitos from Stark’s own bar. Hell, in the later months, Pepper had even joined them.

He missed those times, before the incident in 2012. He tried very hard not to think about them.

“Yes, Director Hill?” Phil eventually parried back, turning to look at Maria. Her brown eyes were accented by gray eyeshadow, understated and lovely, pulling the richness from the iris. Phil could barely make out the lines around her eyes.

Maria leveled him with an unimpressed look, though that seemed to be her default state after taking over SHIELD from Fury. “I was only wondering when you were going to actually interrogate the girl. We’re on a time constraint.”

“Of course,” Phil said, demure, if only to watch Maria narrow her eyes at him. He turned and headed toward the interrogation room, trying to suppress the rolling in his stomach, feeling like he was missing something. Like something wasn’t right.

They’d given him a file of the girl. _Ispytuyemyy 10012_. Codename: Rúna. Found in a demolished Hydra bunker in Siberia. 

They said she wouldn’t speak to anyone. She had only one request: contact with the Avengers.

Apparently, no one had the heart to tell the emaciated sixteen-year-old that the Avengers had long since disbanded, that Captain America was somewhere in Wakanda, and Tony Stark had almost entirely stepped out of the spotlight when it came to saving the world. No one had told her that the Winter Soldier hadn’t been seen in two years and the remaining Avengers were either imprisoned or on the run.

So SHIELD had decided that one of their most senior officers, one who worked most closely with the Avengers other than Maria Hill herself, was required to tell the poor girl that there was no way to give her what she wanted. It just didn’t sit right with him.

He walked into Interrogation Room 4 wary and uptight. The girl remained silent and motionless—Phil was told that this was what she did. Her scrubs were white, but impeccable, and her hands were cuffed to the table. Still, he approached the table cautiously, and gently placed the file that he had on her on the table.

“Hello,” he said softly, slowly scraping the chair away from the table. The girl didn’t open her eyes, nor did she seem to acknowledge he was there at all. Phil’s brows ticked together on reflex, and made a show of sitting down in his chair. The girl didn’t move.

“I heard they found you in Siberia.” No motion from the girl. Distantly, Phil wondered if she could only speak Russian, but he remembered that she asked to see the Avengers in English. “Do you know why you were there?” he questioned, still using a reassuring tone. Again, the girl didn’t even seem to know he’d spoken.

Phil narrowed his eyes. “You want to speak to the Avengers. Why?” he asked, suddenly changing tactics. Like he’d suspected, the girl’s facial muscles twitched along her jaw. Phil smiled. “I know you can hear me. Answer me, and maybe we can talk about getting you in touch with the Avengers.”

It was a low blow, even for him. But since Tahiti, Phil had trouble feeling remorse of any kind.

Finally, the girl opened her eyes. Phil was startled to see the vibrant color of them—dark, gray and blue, like the sky before a storm. It was so different from her stark white prisoner’s garb, the pallor of her skin, the protrusion of her bones. She looked at him, expressionless.

Perturbed, but not willing to let it show, Phil slid the file closer to the girl. She didn’t look at it, but Phil could have sworn he saw fear flicker in those eyes.

“They called you Rúna.” He said it not as a question, but as a fact. The girl’s head cocked to the side, but her face remained blank. Phil felt his heart trip in his chest. “You were referred in the files as _Ispytuyemyy 10012_. Do you know what that means?”

« _Da_ ,» the girl whispered, barely audible. Phil had blinked, and hadn’t seen her lips move. A strange sensation tickled up his spine.

“What does it mean?” he asked, just as softly. The girl didn’t shy from him.

_Test subject 10012,_ the girl said, but Phil was watching. Her lips didn’t move.

The handcuffs make more sense now, Phil thought, trying very hard to remain unimpressed. He’d seen a lot of things in his time in SHIELD, but a telepath was few and far between. He’d thought that whatever had happened to him at Tahiti would have eliminated the possibility of anyone getting into his head again.

_Be not afraid, Agent Coulson,_ the girl murmured, and even through the telepathic link, Phil could pick up on a trace of a Slavic accent. The girl still hadn’t blinked, nor looked away from his gaze.

Phil felt the phantom sensation of someone trailing their fingers up his spine. He shivered, involuntary, though his face remained impassive. “How do you know my name?” he asked quietly, and his earpiece suddenly chirped in his ear, _“Coulson, you okay in there?”_

If Rúna heard that, she didn’t pay it any mind. In fact, her voice was slightly amused as she said, _I have read every file I could find. Hydra keeps extensive records._

Phil digested this, accepted it, and moved on. “So you know who I am. You know my connections.” Which was why she was talking to him, Phil mused, instead of staring at him and expecting him to run away.

The girl’s face didn’t move. _I know what connections you used to have,_ she said, unimpressed again, _before 2012. After, I had to take more extreme measures of research._

“But you know what happened to me.” A statement, a question. His earpiece chimed again, _“Coulson, what the hell is going on?”_

_I can sense it. The metal; the foreign tissues,_ she said, and finally, her eyes flicked to the one-way mirror. _Your director is worried, Agent Coulson. I would appreciate it if you informed her of my intentions._

“I don’t _know_ your intentions,” Phil said, though Rúna still wasn’t looking at him. She was now glaring at the one-way mirror, shackled hands clasped together. Still, when she wouldn’t answer him, he tapped two fingers on his earpiece and said, “Director Hill, everything is under control.”

_“I have a hard time believing that, Coulson,”_ Maria’s agitated voice snapped through the receiver. _“You’re talking to her and she isn’t even speaking. She’s staring right at me. It’s like she can see me.”_

“She probably can,” Phil muttered, and he could have sworn Rúna’s mouth twitched in amusement.

_“What?”_ Maria demanded, but Phil wasn’t listening, attuned completely on Rúna, who had turned from her to gaze intently at Coulson.

_Agent Coulson, I require whereabouts of Captain America and the Winter Soldier. Now,_ she said, and Phil felt his stomach clench tightly.

“I can’t give you that,” he said unflinchingly. “No one knows exactly where the Captain and Sergeant Barnes are.” Phil could hear Maria’s slow intake of breath.

_Don’t lie to me, Agent Coulson,_ Rúna’s voice was calm, collected. Her eyes never left his. _I know you know where they are. I’d prefer not to take it from you._

Fear and anger lanced up Phil’s spine, molten. “You can’t get inside my head.”

_No,_ she conceded, allowing herself to blink slowly. _No more than I already am. But I ask this of you as favor._

Phil narrowed his eyes. A favor, he wanted to ask, for what in return? But before he could formulate another response, Rúna was already answering.

_In return, I will tell you what happened to you. What exactly happened. What SHIELD and Hydra did to you, and your brain, and all of the others who were affected by this. I will give you your Avengers._

Phil stared into storm-cloud eyes, considering. He thought he knew everything about the surgeries, about Fury sending him to be resurrected, about the Kree. But here was this girl, staring at him with unfettered honesty, though not earnestness. Not overeager. Just facts, as if she could get out at any time, if the job went sour she could remove herself without pain. As if she could get the Avengers with a snap of her fingers.

And screw him, but he was curious.

He envisioned Wakanda in his mind, the way he remembered it. He watched as the girl seemed to pick up on this, her gaze pleased.

_I will be in touch,_ she said, her eyes now fixated on the mirror. _You’ll know when I contact you. Do not take what happens next personally._

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he murmured, hearing Maria’s panicked demands in his ear. The thundering of footsteps on linoleum sounded down the hall, and the Rúna was suddenly standing. In a flash of gold, the handcuffs leapt off of her wrists and onto Coulson’s, the door to the interrogation room flying off its hinges. Phil heard the thud of bodies hitting the floor beneath the _clang_ of the metal door thrown against the wall.

The Rúna walked quietly towards the door, paying no mind to the door nor the bodies crushed beneath it. She turned to Coulson only once, and smiled, an anemic thing that barely touched her eyes. And then she was gone, down the hallway, with no resistance.

Phil stared after her for a very long time. He was shackled to the table until the director herself walked through the doorway, face contorted. Behind her, Agent May stood, impassive, along with Daisy, who was allowing herself to scowl openly. Phil smiled at them.

“What in the goddamn hell were you thinking?” Maria snapped, giving a rather spectacular impression of Director Fury. Gone was the cool, collected exterior of director, replaced with an expression of murder. Phil was very thankful that the two agents that flanked her had loyalties to him.

“I was thinking you’d asked me to interrogate the girl, Director Hill,” Phil said calmly, to which Maria actually snarled.

“Don’t pretend you care that the prisoner was _just a_ _girl._ You had a job, Coulson, and I thought you’d be good for it.”

“I can’t be trusted to get SHIELD more resources? I have been your most successful recruiter to date.” Phil allowed himself some degree of annoyance, and it showed in his voice.

Director Hill narrowed her eyes at him. “That girl is not a recruit, Coulson,” she hissed. “She’s a liability, a weapon, and you let her _walk away.”_

“And seriously injure two current SHIELD agents,” May added, smoothly interjecting. Her dark eyes were steady as she said, “A teenager can’t replace two seasoned agents, Coulson.”

“No,” Phil conceded, “but she will give us the Avengers back.”

A tense silence followed, including not one, but three confused glares. 

“The world doesn’t want the Avengers, Coulson,” Daisy said quietly. Her face seemed paler than what was normal, Phil noticed, and there were heavy bags underneath her eyes. He knew the things that were being said about Wanda Maximoff had bothered her, the fact that Inhumans had been thrown entirely under the bus because of it. Phil felt something akin to sympathy swell behind his ribs.

“No, they do not,” Director Hill stated, her eyes still narrow, calculating. “What did you say to her?”

Phil sighed, lifting his hands and jangling the cuffs. “Nothing she couldn’t have found out on her own,” he said, feeling the phantom edge of a smile play around his lips. “She’s after Steve Rogers.”

A snort echoed in the room. Both May and Hill turned to glare at Daisy, who had her hand over her mouth.

“And who isn’t after Rogers after his stunt?” Maria said, exasperated. “The State Department is still in a snit, the media is profiting better than it has since Sokovia. Do you know _why_ she wants to get in contact with Rogers?”

“No earthly idea,” Phil said serenely, allowing himself to smile. The women glared at him. “Will you get me out of these cuffs, Hill?” he asked, only to be met with an impressive Maria Hill stink-eye.

“No. I don’t think I will,” she said, and with that, she turned on her heel and left, ushering both of his agents out. Phil frowned and called, “Hill! May! Daisy, come on!” but none came back, and Phil was once again left staring at the empty hallway, even as a clean-up crew came to take care of the mess the Rúna had made.


	2. Preparation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A reunion, an introduction, and a glimpse into what life was like after the Civil War.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO! So it's not Sunday. But I promise, I will update regularly! I Swear!
> 
> **Warnings:** _Minor violence, reference to unhealthy coping mechanisms, Steve goes through a minor mental breakdown due to stress_

Wakanda seemed to be the only thing that could spark his interest, his artistic streak. There was so much _color,_ in a way that he’d never seen before. He’d never seen the same color _green_ as the jungle leaves, or the rich brown of the soil. He’d never seen sunsets like the ones here, with their every-color hues, gradients he wanted to commit to blank pages, to hang on blank walls. He wanted every inch of color, to feel it in his hands, which he noticed were now _pink,_ and _peach,_ and how flowers were _periwinkle, russet, apricot._ He wanted it all.

So he bought paints. Watercolors, oils, acrylics. He bought pastels, chalks—his extensive rooms in the Wakandan palace were filled with canvases, some finished, some blank, but most were only half-done. Gone was the stagnation of D.C., of Manhattan. Now there was only a feverish need to _move on,_ to have splashes of color. Because what could one do with so much _life?_

He was in the middle of one of those paintings, a particular jungle view from a particular room, no reason why, no reason at all—he just needed to get it _right—_ when a gentle knock came at his door. He turned, covered in reds, greens and browns, when he saw a friendly face in the doorway.

She was small, compact, but in the way that reminded him of Natasha. Every inch of her screamed _don’t touch me,_ but she was gorgeous, in the way that most jungle flowers were. Beautiful, but deadly. Her dark skin was smooth, complimented by an orange flowing top that turned gauzy at her midriff. Black skinny jeans molded to her thighs, and her eyes were two polished stones of onyx. He couldn’t help but smile at her.

“Good morning, Captain,” she said, her voice pleasant and deep. The Wakandan accent reminded him of water rolling over stones.

“Same to you, Your Highness,” Steve said, just as soft. It was difficult, at first—talking to people without having to feel defensive. But Wakanda had been good for him. And Shuri, with her innate sensitivity, sarcasm, and youth, helped him adjust better to life in the 21st Century than any other person he’d met since 2012.

Shuri grinned at him sharply, the way that the royal family of Wakanda always smiled. Her eyes glittered with mischief. “I have a date with my brother in about an hour. How do you feel about accompanying me?”

He looked mournfully at his painting—the forest scene was already done, beautiful rich colors bursting from the lower half of the canvas. But the sky remained unpainted; he had trouble with painting blues.

A gentle hand graced his shoulder. Shuri was there, her face kind, an eerie understanding in her eyes. “There are days still for painting, Steven,” she smiled as she tugged him away. “Today, you are needed. I do enjoy your company.” And he went, docile as a lamb and happy to go, but not without a yearning look over his shoulder.

 

Shuri, being Shuri, didn’t exactly tell him where they were going until Steve found himself staring at the doors, a double-entrance monstrosity that was even taller than the Hulk. He scowled darkly at his guide, who smiled back unrepentantly.

“Shuri…” Steve started in a threatening voice, to which Shuri rolled her eyes.

“Stop looking at me like I’ve lead you to your death, Steven. It’s only the throne room,” she said, taking a rolling step forward toward the doors. Before her hand touched the matte black handle, the doors slowly swung open on silent hinges, revealing what, to Steve, was the most lavish room he’d ever seen.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph, I’m going to kill you, Shuri,” Steve breathed, eyes wide. Distantly, he heard Shuri snort at him.

The throne room was, for all intents and purposes, a movie set. No one really went into the throne room unless T’Challa was taking audiences, which typically meant other royal dignitaries, and subsequently meant Steve was usually very, _very_ far away. He’d only been in once—when Steve, Bucky and Sam were given royal pardons, and deemed protectors of the realm, or some other vaguely monarch-y title he’d rather not think about. And even then, he’d never actually seen the throne room set up in all the royal regalia. But, just like the first time, he felt _extremely_ underdressed.

The column-like hall was outfitted in rich green and red tapestries, the black panther emblem printed on every hanging cloth. The floors were polished wood, pale and refracting the light coming from gorgeous, floor-to-ceiling stained-glass windows. Steve couldn’t help but stare at the colored glass, from the pale pinks to the deep magentas shattering across the floor. There were Corinthian columns in black marble, the shadow to the rest of the room’s brightness, in uniform succession to the throne.

Now, Steve had never paid any mind to the old stories his mother used to tell him about kings, queens and knights of old, but Bucky had. With a pang, Steve remembered all of the times Bucky had given him history lessons about the Old World, where both of their families came from. He’d gone on and on about the stories of Lugh, the High King, and his court. Bucky had even constructed a throne room for Lugh in his mind, and told Steve all about it for him to draw. He remembered dark wood, low ceilings, firelight and rich, deep shadow that made Steve want to reach out and _touch._ Lugh’s throne had been made of wood, and was stout and strong, but adorned with delicate vines and other flowers. The Wakandan throne was very different.

The entire throne seemed to be made of matte black vibranium. It was tall and imposing, but simple in a way that spoke of an ornate and powerful leader. It had a high back, with two curved, ivory tusks protruding from the sides. The seat was adorned with bright purple cushions. It was all very regal, very nerve-wracking—and T’Challa was sitting in the throne with his legs crossed, sipping a pastel pink frappucino.

“Steven! Sister! How lovely it is to see you,” T’Challa grinned, the green straw in his drink rattling as he stood. He was wearing the traditional robes of the Black Panther tribe; a baggy black-and-white skirt, what looked to be goatskin leggings, a black-and-white striped tunic and heavy, layered turquoise beads around his neck. The beads clicked against each other as he walked toward them.

Steve bowed at his waist in respect, which made both Shuri and T’Challa laugh. “Your Majesty,” he said gravely, in his best _to-what-do-I-owe-the-pleasure_ voice. When Steve straightened, both king and princess were grinning at him sharply.

Shuri rolled her eyes, but she patted T’Challa on the shoulder roughly and strode forward. “I will be changing for the event, brother,” she called, disappearing through the gold doors behind the vibranium throne.

After the doors closed with a noise similar to the striking of a gong, T’Challa’s face morphed into an expression of concern. His gaze raked over Steve’s disheveled civvies, including a beat-up pair of Nike sneakers. T’Challa’s pained expression spoke volumes.

“I knew I was underdressed.” Steve couldn’t help snarking, dread and defeat in his tone. T’Challa smiled anemically at him.

“I would suggest changing as quickly as possible, my friend. Sam has already gone to do so.”

“What, exactly, should I be dressing for?” he asked, his eyes narrow and judging on where Shuri had disappeared. He could almost hear her laughing at him.

T’Challa smiled serenely around the Starbucks-green straw. “Visiting hours, in essence,” he said blithely, waving one hand as he walked back toward his throne. “I’m sure you westerners did the same, in your years being ruled over a monarch. I talk to my people, hear their concerns, and pledge my aid. I hold them every solstice and fourth Thursday, with allowances for emergencies.”

Steve’s brow rose on its own, a disbelieving smile playing at his lips. “Every fourth Thursday, huh?” he said, mostly to himself, but T’Challa grinned cheekily at him nonetheless.

“Yes. The people flourish on routine. I’d rather be an informed king than a delusional one,” he said, taking his (rather uncomfortable-looking) seat. The pastel pink drink was mostly gone, a spot of condensation dripping onto T’Challa’s sleeve.

Steve frowned, suddenly taking in T’Challa’s own relaxed state of dress. “Are you not bringing out the glad rags, Your Majesty?” he asked.

T’Challa’s brow furrowed for a moment, whispering, “glad rags,” to himself, before realization dawned and his face lit up. “Oh, I’m properly dressed, Steven. Not every man can wear a bespoke suit at every function, so to speak,” he said, again waving his hand, as if Steve was an annoying little fly. He certainly buzzed at T’Challa enough, Steve thought with a self-deprecating smile.

“When I wear the traditional garb, I show my people that I am one of them, still, despite my position. It does wonders for both my health and theirs,” T’Challa continued, his gaze going far away as he looked at the (now closed) double doors. “In a handful of moments, I must prove to them, as I must every day, that I am still the same man who took the title of crown prince. That I am still my father’s son, the Black Panther, the protector of Wakanda. And most of it does not have anything to do with journeying across the world to save the universe. Or, in a more familiar case, one man.” T’Challa turned to Steve and smiled, eyes sad.

Uncomfortable, Steve cleared his throat and turned away, unable to meet the piercing gaze any longer. He knew what he owed T’Challa—what he still owed him. Bucky’s— _his_ livelihood had depended on T’Challa, and the man had delivered in spades. Steve could live for another hundred years, and not be able to pay it back.

“Steven.” T’Challa’s voice was gentle, but Steve heard the undercurrent of steel. He looked up to see T’Challa watching him, grave out of dark eyes. “You should join my advisors, today. Help with what needs to be done. I would greatly appreciate it.”

Steve felt yet another lump form in his throat that he needed to clear. After doing so (three times, each time T’Challa’s eyes grew more amused), Steve croaked, “Fine.”

“Thank you, Steven,” the king said, inclining his head. As Steve ducked his head in a resemblance of a bow and began to walk away, T’Challa called, “One more thing, please.”

“Yes?” Steve asked, part afraid of another emotional confession, part annoyed at being called like a dog. When he saw T’Challa’s playful expression, he fear slightly ebbed and made way for more annoyance.

T’Challa jiggled the plastic cup at Steve, nothing left except white foam and a puke-colored straw. He smiled as he said, “I would greatly appreciate this also.”

Steve scowled and snatched the empty frappucino from the king of Wakanda. “Asshole,” he muttered, but a grin still edged around his mouth as T’Challa laughed brightly.

 

“How did T even _get_ Starbucks,” Sam griped, helping Steve put on his suit. Steve was pleased to note that Sam was growing out his hair, the tightly-wound curls springing up like corkscrews. He was already dressed in a cream suit, with a pink undershirt and pink diamond cufflinks, a gift from T’Challa. They were princess-cut. Steve had laughed at Sam for _days,_ until Sam had quit being embarrassed and just gooey-eyed about it. Steve also noticed a love bite high up on Sam’s neck. He smirked about it like the good friend he was.

“ _T_ is a millionaire king with a sweet tooth, I don’t think you should question him,” Steve suggested wisely, and only hissed a little when Sam put a death grip on Steve’s bowtie.

“I can hear your nasty little brain cranking, don’t even start,” Sam said darkly, but Steve could still see his blush and happy, gap-toothed smile. Steve rolled his eyes.

They continued to gripe back and forth until Steve deemed himself suitable for the audiences. He was dressed neatly, in a navy suit and a pastel blue collared shirt, with a navy bowtie. He even had black, shined leather loafers on. He winced at his reflection in the floor-length mirror.

Sam stood behind him, beaming. He did that more often, Steve noticed. Sam happy was a good sight.

“You look handsome,” Sam pronounced, smoothing his hands over Steve’s ridiculous shoulders, that soon would be hunched up to his ears.

Steve scowled through the mirror at Sam. “I look like a monkey in a suit, you mean,” he grumbled, a blush high and unattractive on his face. Sam snorted and spun him around, glaring into Steve’s eyes.

“You. Look. Beautiful,” he said with a smile, and Steve couldn’t help but laugh a little, before he suddenly grew serious. Sam’s face was concerned as he said, “Are you sure you can handle this, man? You can always tell T no.”

Steve frowned. “What do you mean? It’s, like, five minutes until the audience,” he said, confused. Sam’s expression grew pained.

“No, dude, I meant seeing— _you know who_ again.”

Steve blinked. “You know who? What do you—”

The door slammed open, revealing Shuri in an orange and black dress with accompanying headdress and Ayo, in her normal black suit-skirt combo. Ayo, as usual, looked deathly serious and unimaginably beautiful, though impassive. Shuri looked like she was about to dropkick Steve in the balls.

“Are you planning on coming or not, _white devil_?” Shuri snapped, eyes wide and furious. Steve opened his mouth to reply, but he was only steamrolled by Shuri and Ayo taking his shoulders and escorting him bodily from the room, Shuri fussing the entire way. Sam, faithfully, was at his back.

“I invite you to a very prestigious event and this is how you repay me? By being late? Wakanda waits on no man, and certainly not a _white man,_ Steven Rogers, you are very lucky we have decided to keep you!”

Steve looked over his shoulder at Sam for help, but only got a shrug and a comical frown, as if he was saying, _What do you want me to do?_

_“Traitor,”_ Steve mouthed, only to be smacked in the back of the head by Ayo, who had yet to speak a word.

“Are you listening to me, Steven? You must stand at T’Challa’s right side, on the right of Samuel. Did you get that?” Shuri demanded, glaring at him. Steve swallowed thickly.

“Yes ma’am,” he said meekly, only now registering that he was going to be standing at the head of the throne room, in front of _a lot of the Wakandan people._

Shuri sniffed and nodded once. “Good. Now, remain calm and smile like you mean it.” As if to demonstrate, Shuri’s taciturn face was masked by a gentle, beguiling smile. Next to her, Ayo remained utterly emotionless. The contrast was shocking.

“Uh,” Steve said, cracking a fake smile. Shuri sighed through her teeth but nodded anyway, muttering, “It’ll do,” before turning and marching out to the throne room, Ayo rolling her eyes at him dramatically while still being able to stalk menacingly out the door.

After they were gone, Steve exhaled, long and loud. Sam snickered unapologetically.

“Why didn’t you stick up for me?” Steve whined, and Sam only laughed harder, or as much as he was allowed to from behind his hand.

When he finally regained his breath, Sam mimed wiping away tears. “Why should I?” he asked, grinning sharply, and oh _God,_ he was adopting T’Challa’s mannerisms. “You dug yourself a hole, man. I can’t do anything but smile and nod. _White devil,”_ Sam hiccuped a laugh, turning on the balls of his feet toward the exit, happier than Steve had seen him since—well. Since ever.

After Sam disappeared through the curtained doorway, Steve found himself lingering. Audiences weren’t televised—they weren’t even really reported on, and Wakanda was a secretive country for a reason. Steve’s identity wouldn’t be broadcast. But there was still that fear of recognition, one that was old, older than the so-called “civil war” between him and Tony, older than even the attack on New York. It was borne of tired showgirls and war bonds, greasy directors and handsy agents.

But T’Challa asked, Steve remembered. And he owed a debt.

He stepped through the curtains, half expecting the lights and camera shutters. Instead, he was met with a gentle silence and warm, knowing brown eyes. He saw select people from Wakanda lined up, and they all smiled at him, or at least the ones he saw. Steve felt a warmth grow in his chest as he took his spot beside Sam.

He looked over to see Shuri smiling at him with her eyes on T’Challa’s left. Sam secretively hooked his pinky through Steve’s, squeezing encouragingly. T’Challa himself was grinning, and after a small nod was exchanged between them, he clapped his hands.

“Let us begin!”

Countless cases passed through the throne room, and T’Challa handled each one with grace and kindness. Whether they were tired and old, or youthful, or sick, each one looked at T’Challa with a kind of adoration that Steve found awe-inspiring. Not many people could command such love, Steve thought, but T’Challa was doing it beautifully—even Sam, who had gone to more audiences as a consort than Steve had ever dreamed of going to, was not immune to the king’s persistent gentleness. Sam’s eyes were suspiciously wet, especially when T’Challa handled a rather tear-jerking case with two orphan children, whose mother was the victim of aggressive melanoma. Steve’d had to wipe his eyes discreetly.

Soon, the line of citizens had dwindled, and it seemed that time had flown by. There were only four people left in the room—an older woman in an orange headscarf, an adolescent boy by her side, whose dark eyes were wide as saucers, and two people in hoodies. Steve eyed the hooded figures with suspicion—obviously they were not trying to be covert, but Steve was still not able to see their features. He wondered how they got past security.

“…and I’m sure the treasury will be more than happy to compensate for your losses. However, your license will be suspended and you will not drive unsupervised for a year, Zaahir,” T’Challa was saying, eyeing the wide-eyed youth sternly. The boy seemed to be torn between ducking his head in shame and staring in awe.

Steve sympathized. Even Captain America wasn’t immune to being scolded by the King of Wakanda.

“He understands, Your Majesty,” the older woman said, nodding gravely at T’Challa while still looking like an angry mother. They both bowed at the waist, as was custom, and quickly exited the way they came. Then left the two people in hoodies, both of whom bowed deeply at the waist.

The smaller figure stepped up first, and in a husky feminine voice, said, “Your Majesty, we’ve come with information.”

Alarm bells rang in the back of Steve’s mind. Beside him, Sam had gone rigid, and instead of just his pinky, he’d grasped Steve’s whole hand. Steve felt short of breath, because that sounded eerily like—

“Miss Romanov, please, we have no business in hiding our faces here,” T’Challa said with a genuine smile. “You and your compatriot have nothing to fear in the walls of Birnin Zana.”

Steve watched in horror as the face of one of his best friends was revealed. Her hair was shorter now, cropped around the ears and straight across the forehead, but still a fire-engine red. Her eyes were still large and bright, bright green. Her face was thin, and her stature not as strong, but she was still Natasha.

The second, larger figure hesitated visibly. Steve’s hands curled into fists, breaking Sam’s hold, because if Natasha came back, he knew exactly who was with her.

Natasha’s eyes flicked briefly to Steve’s at his movements. She assessed him—no weapons, though not entirely harmless. Steve made sure to smile his shark’s smile at her. In response, Natasha’s eyes twinkled mischievously.

_«Sashka,_ » Natasha said, somehow commanding the room better than T’Challa, _«toropit’sya.»_

At the rough bark, the figure jerked into motion. It stepped forward and slowly took off the hood, and Steve stared. He had no other choice. Bucky Barnes didn’t glance in his direction.

He looked good, Steve noticed. Dark circles still under his eyes, rough stubble clinging to his cheeks, but he looked fed in a way that he hadn’t when Steve had first seen him in the 21st Century. His hair was shaved on the sides but long on top, a mockery of what he had in the 30s—still long enough to put up in a ridiculous bun, as he was demonstrating. His eyes were still that piercing, snow gray, that used to warm him up and cool him down all at once.

Now, though, those eyes made Steve feel sick to his stomach.

“James,” T’Challa greeted warmly, either oblivious to both Steve and Sam’s plight or uncaring. His smile was warm, his posture loose, and obviously didn’t deem them a threat. “It’s so wonderful to see you both alive and well.” At that, both Bucky and Natasha nodded their heads, Natasha with a small smile.

“We’ve had a long journey, Your Majesty. We were wondering if we could stay for a few days, and relay the information we’ve gathered.” Her voice was clear and echoed around the near-empty throne room. Steve only just noticed that the room was only occupied by security, now.

_He knew they were coming,_ Steve realized with a jolt. _He knew and he didn’t tell you._

Anger twisted up in his gut the same way it used to when he was five foot nothing and had just turned sixteen. A snarl curled at the edges of his mouth and he must’ve looked threatening, because Sam had clamped his hand on Steve’s forearm and whispered, “Don’t.”

Bucky was staring at him. His eyes were wide and his mouth was open, like he wanted to say something, but T’Challa spoke over him.

“There is always room for you in the royal palace, Miss Romanov. James, are you also searching for a place to stay?” the king asked, still genial and warm.

Bucky, for a moment, looked shocked at being addressed. Then, in what was probably years of training, smoothed out his facial expression into something friendly—something smirking and _aw doll, you know just what to say, don’t you, you’re so good to me Stevie—_

“Yes, Your Majesty. I’d be much obliged.” Bucky’s voice carried, smooth and round. Steve felt every syllable like a suckerpunch. He grit his teeth against the pain.

T’Challa’s expression never wavered. “Then both you and Miss Romanov are welcome to stay for as long as you like. The royal palace is yours to explore.”

Something in the room cracked. Both Natasha and Bucky’s attention snapped to Steve, Natasha’s narrowed and assessing, Bucky’s wide.

Blood filled Steve’s mouth. He’d been clenching his teeth so hard that one of them had cracked.

Sam was also watching him, concerned. Steve noticed the appearance of lines around his eyes. “Steve,” Sam started, placating, but Steve was barely listening.

He brushed past Sam with a gurgled, “sorry,” and made sure not to look at T’Challa, Natasha or Bucky as he made his escape. He was pretty sure he’d heard Bucky call out his name, but he waved the thought aside and kept walking, blood roaring in his ears and tasting copper in his mouth.

 

 

Three hours later found Steve curled up in a fleece blanket, sat in front of the plasma TV that T’Challa had insisted he get, a cotton ball wadded up over his sore tooth. A cheesy TV show called _Dog Cops_ was the thing that Steve decided to watch in his sulking; Clint had turned him on to it, in that oblivious yet insistent way he has. Or used to have, Steve thought with a frown, curling further on himself. He hadn’t heard from Clint—or Wanda—in nearly a year.

The Avengers—or what was left of them after the atrocity that was 2016—had decided it was much better to scatter than remain in one place, easily apprehended. After Steve, Bucky and T’Challa broke them out of the Raft, Clint, Sam and Wanda had spent the month of recuperation they had in Wakanda trying to secure safehouses. Scott Lang had immediately been sent back to Hank Pym, much to the irritation of both the American government and Tony. With the help of Natasha—and, to an extent, Tony—Clint and Wanda had easily been able to locate areas across Europe and Asia to stay. Sam had, of course, decided to stay in Wakanda, where he tried (is still trying) to find safe passage for his mother.

Wanda had been able to return to her native Sokovia, under the alias Ana Amaquelin, and then backpacked across Eastern Europe. She attended sporadic college courses online, and sent Steve a postcard every now and again. The last postcard she sent him was of the colorfully constructed Kremlin.

Clint had, in a move that Steve had never anticipated, packed up and left for Tibet. “Something about the fresh air,” Clint had said, shrugging when Steve had asked him about it. He had collected his dog, a one-eyed, shaggy golden retriever named Lucky, via Natasha. Steve especially missed Lucky. Every now and again Steve would get a letter, with no return address, unsigned, and have maybe one word inside, with nearly a thousand postage stamps. One letter included an honest-to-God photograph of Lucky, his tongue lolling out at the camera and Clint throwing up a peace sign in the corner—the only visible part of him.

That letter only had the word _yo_ written in it. Steve had put it on the refrigerator, along with the picture and Wanda’s postcards.

Steve used to get things from Natasha and Bucky, too. Texts on a burner phone specifically for the reason of communication, though only ever passed between Natasha and Steve. Random knick-knacks from various, wildly different countries. Cute, but ultimately intangible. Those stopped coming after about a year, getting fewer and farther between. It didn’t hurt anymore. Much.

A soft knock tapped on Steve’s front door, drawing him out of his memory-induced haze. He blinked hard for a few moments, still emotional, and muted _Dog Cops_ before waddling to his door and cracking it open, wary.

A very exasperated Sam Wilson stared back at him, tired lines deeply etched around his eyes and wire-framed glasses slipping down his nose. He was dressed in loose-fitting sweatpants, an _I-Heart-DC_ hoodie, and ratty pink bunny slippers. A pint of rocky road ice cream was cradled in his arms.

“Can I come in?” he asked, voice hoarse. Steve wordlessly threw open the door and ushered Sam inside, closing the door and locking all three locks behind him.

Sam looked wrecked. He plopped in the seat that Steve had vacated, throwing a thick, woolen blanket around his shoulders from over the back of the couch, and glared at the TV while Steve stood there, not knowing what to say. He opened his mouth to say _something—_ something placating, something reassuring, but Sam had whispered, “Not. A word,” and that had been that. Steve went to get spoons.

They sat together, two blanket burritos, shoveling massive spoonfuls of rocky road ice cream in their mouths while watching _Dog Cops._ Sam even laughed a little. Steve felt victorious for about three seconds before he remembered how awful everything was.

It was Sam, eventually, that broke the silence. The pint of ice cream was almost gone, the sun had long since set, and they were on their fourth episode of _Dog Cops._ Then, without looking away from the screen, he said, “Me and Natasha were fucking before she left to help James on his soul-searching journey.”

Steve, for his part, didn’t choke on the (frankly ridiculously sized) spoonful of ice cream in his mouth. He took his sweet time swallowing though, just to get back at Sam.

“Well,” he said after the ice cream was gone, setting the pint on the coffee table, “everyone knew that.”

Sam sent him a sharp look, full of repressed aggression and hurt. Steve huddled deeper in the blanket, ashamed.

“I’m sorry, Sam,” he said sincerely, and wrapped an arm around Sam’s shoulders. Sam leaned into him gratefully, face a mixture of pain and exasperation.

“I thought I was over it,” Sam murmured, and Steve’s chest ached with how small he sounded. “I don’t feel cheated anymore, like I used to. I don’t feel betrayed. I’m happy with T,” he said, and Steve nodded, whispered that he knew, because he’d never seen Sam so _incandescent_ with anyone before. Sam sighed as he continued, “It’s just the first time I’ve seen her since she left, I guess. And T’Challa didn’t even _tell_ me.”

Steve felt a ripple of intense annoyance at T’Challa. He resisted the urge to grind his teeth and blew out hard through his nose. “I could kill him for that,” Steve said _._

Sam sent him a sympathetic look. “Yeah,” he said, his smile a wry twist. “How are you doing, big guy?”

_“Awful.”_ The word burst from his mouth before he could think better of it. Sam winced, but he nodded, leaning harder into Steve’s side. The pressure was reassuring.

“Yeah,” Sam repeated, and silence lapsed for another few minutes. On the screen, the dogs continued to be cops. Then: “Do you wanna talk about seeing your boy again?”

Steve tensed, and was very thankful that the spoon he was using was no longer in his hands. He burrowed deeper into the blankets silently, which was an obvious _no,_ he did not want to talk about it, but he could feel Sam’s judging gaze. Sam started the emotional talk-fest, and he wanted a partner. Steve scowled and muttered, “I cracked a tooth.”

Sam huffed a sad laugh and patted Steve’s head companionably. “Oh, Steve. We know. Shuri tried to get me to let her into your rooms, but I told her you were seriously working some shit out right now.” Steve made a mental note to check in with Shuri in the next twenty hours. She would wait about that long before barging in with Ayo, demanding nail polish and badly made cocktails.

“James seems to be doing okay, by the way,” Sam said, tone purposefully light. Steve continued to make a conscious effort not to aggravate his healing tooth. “Two years can change a person. He looks much better than he did.” Sam was petting Steve’s head. Steve would very much like him to _stop petting his head_ while talking about _he who shall not be named._

“Fuck him,” Steve growled petulantly, though he was still submitting to the petting. “He had no right to look that good.”

“Fuck him,” Sam agreed. Steve preened slightly at his friend’s agreement, though he felt the phantom guilt that lingered in his stomach whenever he thought ill of Bucky. Steve scowled and huddled deeper into his blankets. He didn’t _need_ to feel guilty.

Sam sighed. “Will you talk to me about what you’re thinking now?”

“I’m thinking _fuck Bucky.”_ Steve snapped. “I’m thinking I should’ve known he was coming. I’m thinking I would have been _very far away_ if I’d known he was going to the audiences.” He said that part a bit louder, if T’Challa still had his apartment bugged. Or if anyone else did. He scowled too, to complete the image.

Sam huffed again, and his tone was significantly more amused as he said, “Yeah, you and me both, buddy. I think that’s why T didn’t tell us.” _Because he knew we wouldn’t stick around,_ Steve finished in his head, and sighed. T’Challa was just trying to keep what little friends he still had.

“Doesn’t make it okay.” Steve mumbled. Sam continued to pet him, humming in sympathy. Sergeant Whiskers makes a groundbreaking discovery that alters the trajectory of the case on the television. The ice cream melted on the coffee table.

“Are you gonna talk to T’Challa?” Steve asked after a while, feigning being swept up in the show. Sam tensed slightly next to him before relaxing utterly, practically goo on the sofa.

“Do you think I should?” he asked, reaching for the melted container of ice cream. It looked like brown, sugary soup with marshmallows floating on the top. Sam sipped out of the side.

Steve snorted, slightly appalled that Sam would try to get healthy relationship advice from _him_. “Well, yeah. You kinda live with the guy,” he said, he thought rather reasonably.

Sam scowled, but he nodded. “Yeah. I guess I should talk to him,” he said, making to stand. Steve looked up at him, with his slightly-lined face and his wire-rimmed glasses. Sam had aged in the last few years they’d known each other. But T’Challa, and Wakanda, they were doing him good.

Steve wished fervently that Natasha and Bucky’s return wouldn’t shake that peace for him.

“Talk to him,” Steve found himself saying, earnest. Sam looked down at him in surprise. “Talk to him, Sam. I think he just wants to do the right thing.”

Sam smiled tightly, but Steve could see the fondness in his eyes. “Yeah,” he groaned, snatching his melted ice cream, “yeah, I know a lot of assholes like that.”

Steve laughed, and accepted the fond head scratching that Sam bestowed upon him. He was doing that more too, Steve noticed; touching and scratching and patting, being physically affectionate where the royal family was mostly aloof and distant. Steve loved every second, and basked in the attention. He watched, smiling, as Sam walked out the door with a tiny salute.

Before he left though, he poked his head back in and called, “Hey, Steve? Maybe you should take your own advice,” before firmly closing the door.

Steve sighed at the door before turning back to _Dog Cops._ He knew that he would talk to Bucky, eventually. But that was later, and it was today, and Sergeant Whiskers was about to solve the case. So Steve watched _Dog Cops_ until he fell asleep, with a murder mystery and the shaky idealism of a child’s TV show swirling in his mind.

 

 

He didn’t know, really, why his eyes opened. But his body was instantly alert, the way he was after a particularly bad nightmare, though he felt none of the mental sharpness and adrenaline that accompanied it. Instead, his mind remained sleepy, a groggy sort of awareness that colored his entire room in the dove gray of very early morning. He squinted around the room, eyes filmy. _Dog Cops_ had been turned off—the screen was a glaring blue, and the sounds of tropical birds singing came through the open window.

The window that certainly had not been open when Steve went to sleep.

Instantly alert, Steve sat straight up on the couch, the muscles in his back protesting only slightly. At his sharp movement, he saw a thin shadow twitch at the corner of his TV stand, closest to the door. Steve shivered as what felt like a cold finger traced up his spine.

Steve’s eyesight was better than most, what with the serum, but even with that the glare of the TV obscured most of the shadow’s features. He could see a very thin figure, almost waifish, a humanoid shape with white Converse sneakers.

“Who are you?” he asked, reaching behind the couch cushions. The .22 he had hidden there was cold and blunt against his palm.

The shadow twitched again, reacting to his voice. A very soft whisper came from the figure, so faint he had to strain to hear.

“I do not have a name.” The figure’s voice was female, adolescent, Eastern European. A pang shot through Steve’s chest, though his grip did not falter on the pistol.

“Okay.” He shifted, and watched as the figure mirrored his stance. Angled toward each other, backs toward their nearest escape route, but not without periphery vision. “A better question is, what are you doing here? I wouldn’t think you’d want a signed trading card.” The girl didn’t so much as flinch. Steve frowned. If he couldn’t banter with his adversaries, then what good were they?

_Well, this one’s just a girl_ , Steve thought, something in him wanting to soften. _Maybe she doesn’t want to kill me._

“ _No_ ,” the girl gasped out, oddly vehement. His eyes tracked where she stepped forward.

Steve’s brows knit together, trying not to be offended. “Well, I know the cards are kinda vintage, but—”

“ _No,_ I do not want to kill you,” the girl explained, her voice still whispery.

Steve felt relief at that, palpable in a way that fear was. He was, however, very aware of the faint pressure at the back of his mind. _Telepath,_ he thought, and wasn’t too surprised. Wanda had been able to do the same, to a degree. He finally retrieved the pistol and set it gently on the couch beside him. The girl had gone stock-still.

Steve held up his palms, open. The girl didn’t relax. Steve sighed and said, “Listen, if you aren’t going to kill me, then the gun doesn’t get used. I won’t touch it as long as you don’t touch me.” He paused, waiting for that to sink in. The girl was watching him, he could tell, but he still couldn’t see her face. Steve frowned.

“Why don’t you come out into the light?” he asked, keeping his voice gentle. The shadow twitched. He tried to stand, but the girl scuttled back from him, losing the ground she’d advanced on. Steve felt a fierce ache in his chest. “Please. Do you need help? Is that why you’re here?” He could just make out the way the girl was shaking her head.

“No. Please.” The girl’s voice sounded terrified. Her voice shook as she continued, “I should not be here. I only wanted to see—” Her voice cut off. Steve finally uncoiled to stand, though he kept his hands up, harmless.

“See what?” he pressed, trying to seem as nonthreatening as possible. He was about to say something else, something placating and gentle, probably, when the room was suddenly filled with noise and light, the door bursting off its hinges.

Distantly, he heard a girl scream, high and piercing. His eyes took a second to adjust, and was rewarded to see Bucky, Natasha, T’Challa and Sam, Natasha with her hands on the girl’s throat, T’Challa in the Black Panther suit, and Bucky with a matte black SLR, who immediately started to clear the room. Sam was standing in the doorway in his bunny slippers and had a Glock 19 in his hand.

“What the _fuck?”_ Steve shouted, startling both Bucky and Sam. Natasha remained still, eyes locked with a girl who was very obviously trying not to fight back. Her chin was high, throat exposed, but her eyes were defiant—dark gray and stormy, her upper lip curled in a snarl. Her clothes, drab gray and olive green, hung off of her lean frame. Natasha was staring back at the girl impassively.

“Steven, we were alerted of an unauthorized person in your rooms,” T’Challa said, voice slightly muffled behind the mask.

“Yeah, I can tell you all were very concerned,” Steve snapped, striding forward and pushing past T’Challa toward Natasha. “Nat, stand down,” he commanded, using a voice he hadn’t heard in years.

Nat twitched, but didn’t let go. She spared Steve a glance as she said, “Do you know who this is?”

“She said she didn’t have a name, but she wasn’t here to kill me,” he reported, fighting the urge to snarl. “She was nonthreatening. Release her.”

She did, but not without a cold look over her shoulder at Steve. As soon as she was released, the girl slumped against the wall, one bony hand coming up to cover the blossoming bruises on her throat.

“What do you mean, she doesn’t have a name?” Sam asked from the doorway, and Steve was about to respond when Bucky’s voice sounded from his six,

“The room’s clear. Please don’t talk about her like she’s not in the room, you can just ask.” Steve twitched at the proximity of his voice. It was a comforting sound, even then, after so many years of being without it. But Steve’s true attention was captured at the girl’s reaction to Bucky’s voice.

The girl wasn’t slouched over anymore. Suddenly, she was upright, alert, her hands clenched into fists. He finally got a good look at her face; high cheekbones, square jaw. Gray eyes wide and full-lashed. Her hair hung around her ears in kinks, brown and dirty. The hollow of her throat was pronounced, her collarbones in stark relief. But her expression was full of wonder, happiness, _love_ —and she was staring at Bucky.

Bucky was staring back, obviously confused. The girl took a heaving breath and started babbling in rapid-fire Russian, so quick that it made Steve’s head spin. T’Challa and Sam looked very confused, but Natasha was watching with some sort of dawning horror. The girl kept talking, even after Bucky started to say, “No, that’s not right—”, “No, listen, _listen_ to me, I’m _not_ —”

_«You are! You are, please remember me!»_ the girl cried, and it was slower so Steve could understand. The girl was beginning to cry, big eyes filling with tears, and Bucky—Bucky looked wrecked. His face was ashen and his expression was twisted.

He hadn’t seen Bucky look like that—not since before the war.

“Bucky,” he started, aching for him, even after everything, but he was cut off by a sharp look from Natasha. Dark circles were low beneath her eyes, blazing green. 

Her jaw was tight and her lips were thin as she said to the girl in Russian, _«Quiet! You’ll get nothing done like this.»_

The girl’s mouth snapped shut. Fat tears rolled down her face silently, and she looked away, as if saving her modesty. Bucky was staring at her like she’d ripped some vital piece of him out and tore it to shreds.

Sam was the first to react, holstering his weapon and stepping forward. Steve saw the way he was still blinking sleep out of his eyes. “James, why don’t you go back to your room? I can escort you there.” T’Challa shot a sharp look at Sam, who shook his head once. The look exchanged between Bucky and Sam was earnest and pleading. “Natasha will stay with them here.”

Bucky nodded, jerking his head distractedly. Before he turned to leave, however, his gaze swiveled to Steve, who was standing in between the TV and the girl. His expression was—concerned. Guilty. Searching. Steve swallowed thickly and nodded at him.

He heard rather than saw Bucky and Sam walk away. He was too busy staring at his bare feet against the hardwood floor.

The room was quiet for a few moments, save for the receding sounds of boot heels _._ It was T’Challa who broke the solemn silence, his voice stern and quiet as he asked, “What is your purpose here?”

The girl’s tears had stopped, the only trace of them the reflective tracks on her cheeks. Her eyes were suddenly blank, staring into middle distance, and her face was impassive. The abrupt change unsettled something in Steve’s stomach.

_«Answer him, or I will make you,»_ Natasha said evenly, the Russian capturing the girl’s attention. Her gaze was fierce and her mouth was a thin line—the closest Steve had seen her from breaking composure since the beginning days of the Winter Soldier.

The girl’s eyes were glacial as she responded, though her voice was barely a whisper. “I came to see Steve Rogers.”

“Why?” Steve burst out, but the girl had looked down at her beat-up white shoes, and only pressed her lips together when he spoke. He and T’Challa spared each other a frightened glance before Steve asked, gentler this time, “How did you find me?”

The girl shook her head violently. She seemed to be going through an emotional overload—blankness rapidly changing to an overwhelmed expression, back to impassiveness within the span of a blink. Her eyes remained dry. Steve glanced at Natasha, who seemed perturbed.

“T’Challa,” Natasha said, gentle for her. “I think we should look into someplace to hold her.”

Steve began a token protest—the girl hadn’t done anything wrong, except for break into the Royal Palace of Wakanda. T’Challa sent him a reprimanding look, however, and Steve shut his mouth. The girl didn’t look up from her shoes.

T’Challa gave a loud command in Wakandan, and two of his _Dora Milaje_ stepped through the open door. Steve recognized both of them—gorgeous and powerful bodyguards with shaved heads, Okoye with her red and blue facial tattoos, and Nakia with her tightly-bound curls and youthful face. Both were adorned in traditional garb—red robes with silvery vibranium plates as armor. Steve watched as, despite their unyielding expressions, both Okoye and Nakia treated the girl with a firm gentleness. They escorted her out quietly; no protests were made.

Steve observed helplessly as the girl was lead out, head down, brown hair obscuring her features. _They’re taking her away,_ he thought, _They’re taking her away and she didn’t do anything wrong._ Something rebelled sharply in him. His feet lurched with it, toward the door, but T’Challa approached him, obscuring his view, and Steve was torn out of his thoughts. The King of Wakanda was gazing at him in concern, his helmet removed, revealing a troubled brow and deep, endless eyes.

“Steven? Are you hurt?” T’Challa asked, and Steve shook his head. His eyes burned. T’Challa stared fruitlessly while Steve battled with himself, trying not to cry. He felt like he had to go to the girl, had to make sure she was okay— _I can’t leave him, I can’t leave him, I—_

“Steve? Steve! Listen to me.” Natasha was in his face, green eyes dark. He focused on her face—God, she’d aged. Just faint lines, around her mouth and eyes, but it was so different to the implacable Natasha he knew. This new Natasha with cropped, blunt-edged hair and dull eyes. Not sharp at all. A fresh wave of dismay toppled over him, and the tears that had filled his eyes spilled. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw T’Challa look away, giving him privacy. Natasha just stared at him.

“Steve,” Natasha said again, and he refocused, taking a deep breath. She met his gaze, nodded, and continued, “That girl isn’t James. You’re not abandoning her. And no one is abandoning you. We’re coming home.”

A harsh sob bubbled up from his throat. Natasha made a shushing sound, something he’d never heard her do before. Suddenly, he was enveloped by not one pair of arms, but two—T’Challa had stepped forward.

He didn’t know how he got into bed, that night. All he remembered was eventually shutting his eyes, knowing that Natasha and T’Challa would be fair.

**Author's Note:**

> Chapters will be posted every Sunday from this moment on! (HOPEFULLY)
> 
> Comments are love, if you have any questions let me know, or shoot me a line on tumblr at: capnsteeb.tumblr.com


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